Dark
by wickedDiSaster
Summary: Hermione is prisoner of the new Dark Lord, a dark lord she helped derange. Now she has to pay for it. The title should be Warning enough. betas are welcomed.D/Hr


**********Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

**Dark**

She pushed the heavy body off her skin, another of his followers new to her prison. She didn't dwell on how little they all thought of her to think they could rape her like any other prisoner. There was a time when such details hurt her, when the fact he didn't acknowledge her as anything more than a prisoner stung her. They didn't anymore.

The sadistic bastard enjoyed watching them attack her, enjoyed watching her wandless magic unravel.

The body of the stupid deatheater writhed in silence at her feet. She stared at it unflinching. She tried to give him less of a spectacle these days. She knew he watched, he watched everything, everywhere. All the time.

Draco emerged from the shadows with a smirk leering on his face. "Ruthless, as usual, mudblood," he mocked her. She ignored him; she didn't like how pleased he sounded. Nothing good ever came from his pleasant moods.

He stopped her way out with an invisible barrier. She didn't turn to look at him, "What do you want, Draco?" She used his given name to taunt him. He could hide his emotions, but she knew how much he disliked it when she said his name. He Apparated her in front of him – sneer in place – his cold hiss on her neck. It didn't intimidate her like it did the others. He could hurt her in worse ways than with cruciatus, he already had.

She met his cold eyes, and he smirked at her, his tongue tracing her cheek, his index pushed her chin up, exposing her neck. She tried not to close her eyes, tried not to show her pain, to hold her breath; but she knew he felt her cursed heart quickened, felt her breath catch in her throat, she couldn't even hide the tear sliding down her closed eyelids.

He bit her; it was always painful with him. Loving him was painful. It made sense; he made everything fit in her world of pain. He chuckled on her throat, licking the drops of blood he'd drawn from her collarbone.

"Does it taste of mud?" she asked him, she wanted to tamper his mood, wanted to distract him from her; he always made her weak.

He crucioed her. She smiled, it was easier to pretend the tears were from the pain. He levitated her to her feet, captured her lips on a crushing kiss, pushed her hard against the wall and reaped her clothes open as he pretended to rape her. As if she didn't fight to clutch him closer, as if he didn't make her forget herself, as if she didn't end up pouring her heart in each of her touches. The way he fucked her was like him, merciless, thorough, and vindictive.

He treated her like a drug, she probably was, because she couldn't hide the way she felt when he took her, she couldn't fight it or fight him. She drank him whole each time she had him, because she breathed through him, because he let her forget, because while he was in her arms all she felt was her love for him, her love that overpowered everything else, and while she lived in it, she didn't care for the hollow hell in which she'd drown afterwards.

He left her bleeding, wounded, and beaten, yet every mark he left helped her heal, helped her cope with the pain and regret of her own hell. She didn't heal them or hide them because the sight of them comforted her. It reminded her that it didn't matter that she didn't fight him because he would have had her in the end; it helped her deal with the fact she welcomed each of his touches because he would have given them anyway; that she couldn't help enjoying even the pain that came with them because it was like him, like everything he was and everything he did; and the hurt helped her deal with the much deeper sorrows of her soul.

He didn't like them though, and she knew him well enough to know just how much he abhorred the sight of them. It was another reason to keep them. He knew she could heal them, he knew what they did to her. He sneered at the way they helped her cope, at the way she saw them.

She walked in on another scene of sex with one of his whores. He enjoyed the way her eyes flashed in anger, so she didn't let him enjoy it for long. She made the thrashing body fall dead on top of him the next second, and he disappeared her remains with a disgusted mixture of annoyance and irritation. He lifted his glaring eyes at her, "Wanted my attention, Hermione?"

She approached him purposefully, her arms clutching the arms of his throne. "The prisoner on the chamber of torture," she told him unflinching, "she's already told your minions everything she knows."

He smirked at her, "Are you sure you don't want to ask for her fiancé? Thomas was your friend wasn't he?" He was taunting her. She had long ago learned never to beg for the life of the people she cared about, or the people that cared about her. Neville and Viktor had paid dearly for it because of her ineptitude to foresee his actions. Draco used one as her weakness and the other to exert his fury. He humiliated her in so many ways before them both and in their name, tortured them past the point of insanity. Countless more paid for her stupidity. It was worse when she asked him not to make her see, and when she finally cracked and grew a shell for the pain, when she grew cold enough to foresee what was coming and had coldly asked him to kill her first and torture them later, he had exploded in rage, which was worse than his glee. There hadn't been anything left from Luna's father when he was over, and all she had caused was to make him mad enough to order for more prisoners from the cells. Ten of them had numbed her to the horror of it all, but he had continued anyway.

Long were the times when she could have left with her death wish and escape this hell; when his leverage of mind could have forced him to take her life. He said she was too much fun now. She knew better. She knew _him_.

"Keep Dean," she said with a straight face, "what do you want for the girl?"

He laughed at her, tapped his fingers on the wood next to her fingers. He was almost grazing her skin, his eyes travelled up her arm with hunger, she healed the bruises and scratches left in her body as she used her other hand to pull the knot holding her cloak on her. His eyes delved in her cleavage, his magic untying her corsage while she started to undo her pants. She was standing over him now, his eyes travelling greedily up her thighs, waist and chest. He smirked as he met her eyes.

"Not this," he said, "I want you to do Thomas." She stopped. "I want you to do him the way you did your guard last week."

She took a step back to pick up her cloak. "Alright," she said as if she didn't care, walking to the exit as she pressed the clasp of her pants together. "When?" She asked.

"When I say; let it be a surprise."

The door was locked. She turned to look at him, her hand still on the knob to open it. He was smirking again.

"Strip," he said. She forced herself to keep a straight face. Her hand clutched the knob tighter though. She wanted to claw it open. He was going to torment her with this now. "You know how I like it, Hermione. Get started."

Strip. His voice echoed in her brain reviving memories. He was reminding her whose fault all this was.

She'd found him bloodied on Myrtle's bathroom, he was feverish, mumbling curses, runes and phrases she couldn't understand. She nursed him back to health, it didn't take long, it took her a while to realise he hadn't done it himself because he didn't have his wand. Whoever did this to him had taken it from him; she'd later learn it was to exercise his wandless magic.

He couldn't help his mumblings though, and she couldn't help listening to them. He wanted her, he wanted her as much as she wanted him, and he was holding back, just like she had been holding back. Different reasons, different motives; _his_ made hers look beyond childish, they were ridiculous. He was protecting her, protecting himself, protecting everyone. He'd been far too gone to worry himself with trivialities like school, houses, rivalry, or their stupid Pickering. She just wanted to heal him. When the healing gave him his sanity of mind, he was screaming all his hatred at her, yelling trying to cover what he'd revealed, but she'd already absorbed too much to forget.

She just wanted to heal him, to make it all better, to alleviate his pain, to make him forget; like he was trying to make her forget. He thought she was leaving when she went to lock the door. She'd heard the edge on his voice when he yelled at her she was nothing but a fucking mudblood. She'd stood there looking at him, clutching the knob. She let her cloak fall to the ground, but he didn't stop yelling until she started unbuttoning her blouse. She let her skirt fall next to her cloak and shoes, before she walked barefooted to the bed she'd conjured for him and deepened it as she leaned in to kiss him. She didn't realise she'd left her tie on until he used it to pull her closer. He rolled them over, snogged her for hours with the same fury of his profanities while she wrapped her legs around him and delved her hands on his hair. She breathed hard through the way he grinded in her, she'd stopped thinking through the heat of things at least a couple of times before he stopped, his hot breath alive hard on her chest. He rested on his elbows and then fell onto his side. His heavy breathing coming to a stop as she pushed him on his back while she put herself on top. She was in all fours staring at his bare face when he opened his eyes, and she saw it. He looked at her as if she was the purest creature on the planet, as if she'd grown wings and shone all over.

She sat straight and his eyes followed hers. He made her feel radiant, she didn't feel any shame as she let her open blouse fall to her sides, she was lost in his gaze when she clasped her bra open to follow her blouse. The first wandless magic he saw her do was disappear the fabric of both of their trousers, closing her eyes and touching part of the tissue under her fingers as she focused. She'd been utterly perplexed by what she found, when her hands touched skin and she opened her eyes to see him underneath her while her hands took support on his hips. It was shocking, it was different, and it left her completely ignorant as to how to proceed. She gulped and turned to find his eyes. He licked his lips, and looked as if restraining with all his might. He seemed as if in pain, and she didn't like the idea of her being the cause of it, so she lifted herself upwards, took a hold of him and guided him to her centre. It felt incredibly good, good enough to forget her embarrassment at how slick she felt herself to be.

It took her a while to find the right spot, and he was on his elbows, growling with tight fists on each side of him. "Sorry," she whispered, and it came like a whimper as she pushed herself down on him. The pain cleared the fog on her mind a bit, but the sound of her name on his lips made her dizzy again. Part of her wanted to apologise again because she thought she hurt him, but he crashed her lips to his.

That is how she took his virginity and hers.

He liked to taunt her with it, she started it all. She started him, he would have just caved if he hadn't had her; he would have been just another death eater if she hadn't given him a purpose, if she hadn't made him strong, if he hadn't had a motive he wouldn't have endured so much pain. He wouldn't have become what he was now.

And she couldn't bring herself to regret it because if she hadn't meddled, he wouldn't have killed all those people, but she would have mourned him. She could mourn the entire world but him. Not him.

He liked reminding her how much of the blood he shed was in her hands. She made it harder; she made it so much harder that at the end he hated her for it too. When his mother died at his hand, when they took all of his humanity with her, he remembered whose fault it all had been.

**********A/N:** This story is a WIP, feel encouraged to through suggestions.


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